Sweater Weather
by body-eclairic
Summary: It's 1921. Sherlock and John are two highly intellectual, childish, proud, and a bit pretentious, individuals in their twenties who fancy a bit of sunlight one day and therefore get out of their dusty London flat and search for the deepest points each of them can reach as they dive into the cold, vast water and have one of the best days of their life. 1920s AU, Johnlock, one-shot


**i don't know what it is about those 1920s swimsuits, but i would just love to see young sherlock and john in them oh god**  
**the things i think about at 4-5am**  
** i can't help myself, but maybe there are others who like pretentious fresh-out-of-university john and sherlock at the beach so i hope you like this! **

* * *

It was a splendid, late-August day. For the first time since we've become flatmates, we decided to embark on a trip together. We boarded a bus at half past six, and even though it was fairly early in the morning, the bus was still packed with commuters of all sorts. Sherlock said he found it _stupendous_, if a bit, er, _disagreeable_.

''The wretched bus reeks of dog excrement, that damned baby will not shut up, and our attempt to have a quiet day at the beach will be a forlorn one indeed.''  
I must have been giving him a downcast look for he was giving me the serious one that usually seemed to ask ''Are you alright? I'm sorry if that was out of line, I'm an idiot'' or that's what I like to believe it said, anyway.  
He sighed, then asked in a quieter tone: ''And do you know why?''

''Is it the weather?'' I asked, even though the answer was obviously no. A few dark clouds were gathering around the pasty-looking sun and there was no doubt that there would be rain later. The rain, however, would not bother me in the least. As long as the rain was not accompanied by wind, but the forecast- Sherlock- said it would be; I'd be content.

Upon hearing my answer, he became ecstatic. ''Seats to the left- notice the freckled, melanoma speckled arms of the woman- the two children in the back and the child in the front have the same patterns all over their arms; obviously a family trip to the beach since they go there often and someone, perhaps someone who has some sort of medical education,'' here he made a significant pause, ''should tell them to stop going.'' It was as if he cared for the health and well-being of complete strangers. ''Front of the bus- boy already in a swimsuit, then the two old ladies with lobster-red sunburn they tried to, unsuccessfully, hide from me with make-up-''

I cracked a smile, ''I don't think they were trying to hide it from _you._''

He smiled back, in a jovial (and yet somewhat sarcastic) manner. ''Behind us, notice the way that man's pants sag a bit at the left leg because he hadn't taken the sand-''

''Alright,'' I interrupted, ''Alright. You know that everyone on this bus is going to the beach, even though it's not like you really had to prove it.'' I was hoping he hadn't seen that as an inference that he should have shut up, but rather as a compliment- he really didn't need to prove his brilliance to me.

He must have seen it as the latter, because he looked elated and pleased with himself.  
Suddenly, all of the people looked or inclined toward the window, so much that at one point I was afraid of the bus tipping over. As I looked out the window, I realised what had struck their fancy.

''It's colossal,'' I gaped. The ocean, was indeed, quite large, and for someone like me who had last seen it when they were five, it was quite impressive. It had been twenty years since I'd last seen it. Now, Sherlock and I see it quite often. After that day we kept going back, I suppose both of us thought it had been a pleasant day worth experiencing again (and again).

''Yes, John, the ocean is rather hefty-'' Sherlock said mockingly. One of the red-haired, freckled boys guffawed upon hearing this and Sherlock rolled his eyes. One could have even mistaken his annoyance for affection because with Sherlock it was hard to tell the difference between the two, and usually when I said something he thought was stupid, I'd get this look... I could not decipher if it was an annoyed one or an affectionate one.

Sherlock's face hardened, and he spoke quietly: ''It would be kind of you to-''

''Yes, alright,'' I shifted in my seat, ''Switch places with me.''

We did so, and after that I promptly turned toward the little boy who had laughed, whose mother was sitting next to him.

''Madam-'' I began, but she didn't hear me. The boy saw my attempt to call her and soon tugged at her sleeve. With a worried expression, she asked what the matter was and he explained to her that I needed to speak to her.

She looked up at me, ''Oh, hello,'' she said with a smile. She was quite pretty, with curly brown hair down to her shoulders, clad in a white summer dress. I could feel Sherlock's gaze on me.

''Hi, uh, m' name's John,'' I said awkwardly. I must admit that I felt quite odd, almost intimidated. She looked and was just a bit older than me, yet she seemed much older and wiser than me. The fact that she had three children might have been partly why, but it was the way she looked- in some ways it was ridiculously attractive.

Her smile widened, ''How do you do, John. I'm Lynn,'' she stuck her hand out for me to shake.  
''That's not her name,'' Sherlock murmured. The fact that she lied about her name and the smug smile she had on her face after doing so made her even more attractive.

''How d' you do... Uh, I, there's something important I must tell you.''

The smile disappeared, as if she could sense trouble in my words; ''Well, go on then.''

''Your skin, I can tell it wasn't always this tan,'' as I talked she stared at me with wide eyes, ''And that mole on your elbow- did you have it before this summer?''

She clasped her left hand around her right elbow with an inaudible gasp.  
''Hold on. I read about this recently... You don't mean it's-'' she trailed off.

''Listen, a good friend of mine from Bart's has got a father- I mean, his father is an excellent surgeon.''  
Then, I felt Sherlock push something into my lap, it was a pen and an open notebook.

''This is his name,'' I said as I scribbled it onto the paper, ''Tell him John Watson has sent you. It might not be harmful, but I would like you to check.''

The woman, terrified, scrambled to take the piece of paper I tore out of the notebook.

''Thank you, thank you,'' she said, tearful.

''If your children _must_ have a swim today,'' Sherlock piped up, still looking out the window, '' It would be safe to do so, it'll be raining but the water will still be warm.''

She smiled and hugged her son, ''Thank you both.'' I gave her one last smile as she kissed the top of her son's head.  
I was quite surprised at the way Sherlock was acting the past few days, pleasantly surprised. I'd never imagined that he'd go out of his way (talking, listening and, often, glancing in someone's direction at their incentive was going out of his way for him) and help a stranger like this.

He was staring out of the window, and the way he was dressed was quite amusing. It was the kind of attire one would wear to the beach. It was also the kind of attire one would never expect to see Sherlock in. Over his swimsuit he had on a jumper and a pair of trousers that went to just below his knee. His hair had not been cut in a while and it was dishevelled, ruffled by the wind, as curly as ever.

''Why did you..?'' I mumbled. I should have noticed it myself and told the woman, but I'm not nearly as observant. Thank God for Sherlock.

Sherlock kept looking out of the window, ''I saw a man in the morgue three days ago, cause of death- that,'' he bit his thumb.

I nodded. I understood immediately, this woman was obviously a single parent, not that rich and willing to work her arse off to take her children to the beach during the summer.  
We spent the rest of the bus ride in silence. Sherlock wouldn't tear his gaze away from the window, and I pretended that was the case with me as well, but I kept looking at the pale light dancing on his face. He noticed, he always does.

We arrived and most of the people, as he predicted, trotted out of the bus just where we were supposed to. We waited for them to exit to bus, and then we picked up our backpacks and walked out, Sherlock strutted away while I lingered a bit to bid the woman and her children a good day since they decided they'd not be getting out on this stop. Her real name is Genevieve.  
I then followed him, shuffling out into the fog that rose from the sand. The air was thick and damp, it smelt of fish and salt and seaside life.  
I rushed to catch up with Sherlock, who kept his eyes on the line where the sea met the wet sand and kept advancing towards it.

''Sherlock!'' I called. He did not turn around, so I ran after him. When I finally caught up with him I grabbed his arm and pulled him back. I took a deep breath; ''We're not going that way.''

I wonder if I make him feel stupid sometimes. If I do, he conceals it very well.

''Come on,'' I said and started walking to the left, towards the cliffs that framed one side of the vast sands. He followed, and I was deeply honoured by this- the fact that he'd blindly follow me, as much as I would follow him anywhere.  
Yet I couldn't keep my smugness at bay as I imagined him, aghast and bumbling (even though in reality he was anything but that), following _me_. I must admit I like these moments, the moments when it's up to him to rely on me.  
I felt bad for witholding information from him, so when we passed almost half the way to the cliffs I slowed down and walked by his side.

''A friend of mine tipped me the wink,'' I said, smiling up at him, ''There's a little beach on the other side of the cliff, but we need to climb and get behind that rock, then walk through a sort of meadow, and we're there.''

He frowned, and I could tell that he wanted to make a nasty remark and I had a few guesses of what it could have been but the both of us held our tongues.

''We'd be alone there?'' he spoke after a while.

''Yes,'' I said as I jumped over a puddle of seawater. We both climbed behind the rock and through a hole in the cliff that lead to a patch of grass, behind which was a pebbled cove.  
As I mentioned before, I had a few ideas of what Sherlock's nasty remarks could have been and the most probable one would certainly have been ''Why go and search for a different beach, when this one is a mile long and people would be scattered about, not huddled around us in a circle.''  
But I knew Sherlock didn't appreciate sand and had a jaundiced view on it, since sand was known to get in all sorts of places you didn't want it to.  
''Here we are,'' I said proudly and set my backpack down on one of the bigger rocks amongst the pebbles.

He kept nodding as he analysed the area, so I suppose he approved of it. Then he let his backpack slide down his hands carelessly and he began to take his jumper off. I did the same, and when we were left only in our swimsuits I noticed that his were actually tighter than usual, he was wearing a wetsuit. That was a lot more expensive than the usual swimsuit, plus it seemed to be fitted just to suit him and all the lovely convex and concave parts of his body, which undulated every time he moved.

I walked in and when the water was up to my waist, I threw myself in. It was amazing.

''Are you coming in?'' I shouted.

''I don't feel like it,'' he replied.

He sat down on the pebbles and looked at me. I dived in to get my head wet and when I rose back to the surface, a gust of cold wind bit at my ears.

Sherlock was on the shore, perched up on his elbows in a half-lying position, in his tight fitted, black wetsuit.  
''You'll freeze out there, come on! The water's perfect! And the rain is getting harder...''  
We knew that this misty, needle like rain preceded the deluge, but we'd already be back in the flat when it really starts to rain, according to Sherlock.

He sighed and used his hands to hoist himself up. He then took our clothes and put them in a hole in the cliff where they could be safe and dry.

He walked over to the water, and then treaded toward me.

When he was about two feet away, he grinned, ''Are you happy now?''

I grinned back and swam away. It was unnerving that I had to float where he could still stand, damn his long legs. I kept swimming, further into the waves, and I revelled in it. Sherlock lay on his back and floated about in the shallower part, not minding the cold. Sometimes I wondered if he trained himself not to feel it, if he was immune to things such as pain, heat and cold.

When I got tired of swimming, I made my way out of the water. I sat on the beach for a bit, looking at Sherlock. He noticed me and swam closer to the shore, but didn't get out of the water. My swimsuit, drenched and notably heavier than when dry, clung tightly to my body. I decided it was time to change into my dry clothes if I didn't want to acquire a cold.  
I got up and walked to the widened crevice of rock in which Sherlock had left our backpacks and clothes. It was big enough for me to sit inside, and I could stretch my legs and put them on a big stone that stood just in front of my makeshift shelter. Sherlock swam to the rock on which I'd put my legs and pushed up against his arms, climbing up. He plopped down next to me and heaved a sigh. The boot was on the other foot now- his height was a bit of a problem and he had to hunch down a bit while I could sit straight up.

''We might as well eat,'' he said, leaning back against the stone.

''_You_,'' I asked, incredulous, ''Want to eat?''

''I do eat,'' he huffed. ''Occasionally.''

I smiled, which made him give me an odd look, and took the tea and biscuits out of my bag. The tea was still hot, since we kept it in a vacuum flask but I was afraid for the biscuits- I'd wrapped them in paper but I thought that perhaps I should have put them in a tin. Fortunately, they didn't get wet.  
I gave Sherlock a cup and poured him some tea, and then handed him the packet of biscuits. We hadn't brought a lot of food on the trip, we figured we won't be needing that much since we'll only be there a short while.  
I poured myself a cup and we ate in silence, both mesmerised by the ocean, I mesmerised by him. He seemed to be mesmerised by himself too (since he constantly kept looking down at his wetsuit,stroking his salty legs with his thumbs-up and down and repeat; and, well, because he was and is Sherlock Holmes).  
After eating as much as two whole biscuits (!), Sherlock stood up, took another one and pushed himself to the edge of the rock, where he could stand up straight.  
He crumbled the biscuit in his hand, and then released the crumbs into the ocean. In my mind I could almost see the fish gather and I could almost see him smile at the sight. When I moved forwards and got up to join him, I could see it.

I'm not sure what overtook me. Not a few minutes later, when the fish had already gone away, we were both back in the water. I pushed him in, or well, I tried to- but he grabbed my forearm and pulled me in with him. I fell on top of him and after we promptly untangled ourselves from each other, he sprayed water into my eyes. I got back at him, but then he did it again, so I had to jump on his back in an attempt to drown him. When I released him and he rose to the surface, I could see he was very annoyed with me. But also very happy.  
The grin that was plastered on his face seemed to be genuine and after my laughing had simmered down I affectionately called him a 'dumbarse' which made his face fall. I was ecstatic. I climbed back onto the rock and he followed shortly after.

I told him to turn around as I took my swimsuit off and put on my dry clothes. When I was done, I told him I was decent and it was alright for him to turn back around. He, then, started taking his wetsuit off. It appeared that he didn't mind me looking at him, but after he slid it down to his abdomen I turned around to give him some privacy. I could hear him changing, the rustling of dry clothes.

That's when I noticed something, and apparently I did so just as he did too.  
''Could you pass me my jumper?'' he asked. I nodded and stretched my arm out to take it, it had been in front of me, and then turned around to hand it to him. He was impossibly close, but it didn't affect him whatsoever.  
''Thank you,'' said he. My hand lingered on the jumper, I was not yet ready to let it cover his marble skin.

I looked up into his eyes and I knew I was staring and I knew that I should just let him have his jumper; but I also knew that the colour of the ocean didn't even compare with the colour of his eyes and that his cheeks could not have been that red just because of the cold.

I'll never forget it, the first time I kissed him. I arched my neck upwards and did, it could not have been stopped. When I pulled away, not to far though, he looked at me with the most amazed expression I'd ever seen him have. I kissed him again.  
I dragged my lips over his slowly, then a bit over his chin and a bit over his nose. He kept kissing me back, pressing into my kisses, but I could tell this was an area he was not an expert in.  
His cold fingers found a way to my neck. He stroked the back of it and ran his hands through my wet hair, while I connected the droplets on his back with my fingers.  
He then slid his hand down and tugged at my jumper, pulling me closer. I broke the kiss to catch my breath, but it only caught in my throat at the sight of him. I smiled widely and he mirrored my smile. I pushed up to touch our foreheads together and he slouched down a bit to meet me. He seemed to want to kiss me but looked insecure about it, so I kissed him again.  
I'm not sure how much time we spent like this, with him holding me as I pasted kisses onto every part of his face.  
Too soon, it was five PM and we needed to get ready to go back home. Sherlock finished getting dressed and we dashed to the bus stop, both not speaking a word to each other. I feel like a bloody teenager again, smiling stupidly at the person I fancied.

We got on the bus in time and found a place to sit in the back. It was a Friday, so it was logical to assume that the reason the bus had half the passengers on the ride back than it did on the way there was that people were staying for the weekend. It had been an amazing day, but I couldn't wait to get back to the flat; who knew what could happen once we came back home?

After a while, I fell asleep with my head on Sherlock's shoulder. Later, as I was waking up I could feel an arm slide from around my waist, but I caught it in time and held it in place. In the place where it belonged.


End file.
